


Gonna Make Me Lonesome

by ShadowValkyrie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel in the Bunker, Codependency, Depression, M/M, Not a Happy Story, POV Third Person Limited, PTSD, Past Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use, come for the more or less platonic bed-sharing and stay for everyone's massive issues, discussions of rape, hints of unrequited Dean/Sam if you squint but can be read as platonic, mentions of several other pairings, not as bad as it sounds, post-s8
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-08 16:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3215099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowValkyrie/pseuds/ShadowValkyrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas may be human now, but some things don’t change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this before S9, and it turned out to go AU about halfway through 9x03. Inadvertently turned into a bitter “take that” to everything I despise about seasons 9 and 10. Not at all suitable for friends of a “happy human Cas” storyline. 
> 
> Title owed to Bob Dylan. 
> 
> Currently not yet beta'd. Please feel free to point out any errors/inconsistencies. Any and all feedback welcome! 
> 
> Please heed the tags for warnings! It's not as bad as it sounds, as most of the darker things are only hinted at/mentioned in conversation rather than happening on-screen, but I don't want anyone running into something triggering unawares.

Dean wakes up with the acute sense of someone in the room, watching him. From one second to the next, he’s hyper-aware, icy rush of adrenaline tightening every muscle in his body. A moment’s panic, when his hand doesn’t find the knife under his pillow. A second, when his other hand touches bare skin. There’s no sheath on his calf. He’s not even wearing jeans. Why is he in bed without jeans? 

“Apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The momentary disorientation ebbs away and leaves Dean cold and shaken, but relieved. He’s in the bunker; it’s okay to sleep half-dressed and unarmed. He’s not under attack.

“You need to stop that, Cas. I mean it.” It comes out tired rather than angry. The same broken record it’s been for years.

He hears Cas shift a little in the darkness, somewhere halfway between the door and Dean’s bed. Which means he’s either one stealthy bastard, even without his angel powers, or Dean’s instincts are getting dull as shit.

“I heard you were having a nightmare. I remembered too late that I wouldn’t be able to help anymore.”

For a moment, Dean is tempted to ask whether it was a frequent thing, before Cas’s Fall, this dropping in unannounced and messing with Dean’s dreams without telling him, but he doesn’t. That way lies madness. Clearly marked with neon signs and comfortably surrounded by a lifetime supply of razor wire.

“Right. Look, Cas, I appreciate the good intentions, I do, but I told you: watching people sleep is fucking creepy. So don’t do it.”

Very possibly the creepiest thing is how hard Dean is faking his once-righteous indignation these days. Shit. He wants a drink. Badly. But there’ve been rules for that lately – only in the evening, only in moderation, and only in company – and he’s been good about following them. Unfortunately, it’s got to be around 3am in the morning right now and he somehow doubts getting Cas to drink with him would be a wise move. On a number of levels.

The main one being that, very likely, neither of them would stop anytime soon. And Sam is in no condition to drive anyone to a hospital. He’s better off than he was before Zeke, definitely, but kicking the angel out did a number on him anyway.

It’s hard to believe that was only three days ago. Since Cas took one look at Sam before turning to Dean with a questioning head-tilt and asking, “Did you know your brother is possessed by an angel?” To Dean, it feels like he’s been tiptoeing around the issue for years, always waiting for the eventual shitstorm. But Sam’s only keeps looking at him with this quiet sort of resignation that chills him to the bone, because it’s not like his brother at all. Dean would take all the bitching and huffing and storming out, if it meant Sammy would stop being pale and weak and not eating and just generally not being okay.

It doesn’t help that he sees the same kind of defeat mirrored every time he looks at Cas. The same slumped shoulders and dragging feet… Between the two of them, they drive Dean crazy with helpless worry. All his mother-henning won’t even get a raise out of them.

After a moment, the silence begins to stretch between them. Not really uncomfortable, just noticeably there.

Cas makes no move to leave. Not being able to see his expression in the pitch-darkness is less disconcerting than it probably should be. Dean can imagine the kicked-dog expression, that look of mingled confusion and longing, only too well.

He rubs a hand over his own face. Tries not to think about what it means that he’s glad for his best friend’s complete lack of social skills so often. Because that could lead to the sneaking suspicion that he does not actually want Cas to leave – not just the bunker and Dean’s life in general, that’s par for the course by this point, but also this very room at right this moment – and that’s not a thought he wants to deal with at all.

It’s one thing to acknowledge your messy, painful feelings for someone who’s dead and unlikely to come back, and quite another to do so for someone who’s standing next to your bed in the darkness, barefoot and human.

“So, uhm… Trouble sleeping?”

Cas hesitates, then bursts out, “I dislike sleep.” There’s a bottomless depth of loathing in his voice. It would be funny, if sleep was something, y’know, optional.

Dean snorts. “Not what I asked.”

Put-upon sigh. “Yes, Dean, I have trouble sleeping.”

And well, Dean would normally concede that he is the worst person alive to offer advice on that subject, but compared to Cas, he feels downright competent at this whole broad category of ‘basic human shit’ that sleeping is part of. And if he can’t help with the sleeping, maybe can at least help him cope with the not-sleeping. He’s got years of coping under his belt. “What is it you got problems with? The mechanics? The fluffy sheep?”

There’s a brief pause, but Cas doesn’t take the bait. “Everything,” he confesses instead. “Falling asleep. Staying asleep. Dreaming. It’s… unreasonably difficult.” There’s barely a shadow of Cas’s usual pissed-off vehemence left in there, and somehow that’s more worrying than the fact that the guy apparently hasn’t really slept for several weeks – unless you count the few times Dean has seen him nod off for a few minutes during the daytime. Occasionally while standing.

It’s only been three days, since Cas showed up – half-starved and dripping red-tinged rain – on their doorstep, like the world’s worst-smelling homing pigeon – and man, that comparison had gone over _great_ – but Dean doubts he slept any better on the street.

Well, at least he’s in good company, what with Sam and Kevin taking turns sleeping in chairs in the library or the war room, and ghosting endlessly through the corridors the rest of the time. And it’s not like Dean doesn’t get it. He used to be running on three hours a night, supplementary amphetamines, and a twelve-hour crash every two weeks or so himself for years – until pretty recently even – and he still has more nightmares than nights without them. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to ask Cas what he sees when he closes his eyes for too long, either.

He tries for light-hearted instead. “Tried jacking off yet?” It’s out before Dean can think better than to expect Cas to get a half-joking rhetorical question.

Of course he doesn’t. There’s a world of tired annoyance in his voice instead. “It appears to be the general advice.” Trust the hobo crowd to know all the free home remedies. “So yes, I tried.”

“And?” No one can say Dean’s not a masochist.

“I didn’t like it.”

Dean chokes out a pained laugh. Should have seen that one coming. “Right. Or you’d be horizontal now.”

Cas shuffles a little. “Maybe you could try to go back to sleep?”

“And you’ll do what? Stand there and listen to me breathe? Dude, _creepy_.”

Audible pout. “It’s comforting.”

“Not to me.”

Cas sighs, like he hadn’t expected anything different, but figured it had been worth a try.

And yeah, Dean’s being a hypocrite again, because how often has he been thinking, since he got his own room, that it’s much easier to sleep with Sammy one bed over, quiet breathing always readily available proof that he’s still alive? It’s a little unfair to blame Cas for the same thing, just because Dean has weird and decidedly one-sided sexual hang-ups about the guy.

Who, by the way, is still standing there, in the darkness, like he doesn’t know where else to go. Probably chilled to the bone by insomnia and sup-par old-building heating.

It’s another one of those avenues of thought the razor wire should never have come off of, but here goes: “Cas? Look, I’m going to pretend this didn’t happen tomorrow, but… Stay. But for the love of… whatever, lie down.” He scoots over, lifts the blanket and pats the bed for good measure.

Cas doesn’t move.

Great, _now_ he’s shy. After years of thought-invasions and personal space violations galore, and the most recent ominous gem, “I know how showers work.” (Which is probably only disturbing because Dean’s brain automatically translated it to mean, “I watched you have plenty of showers whilst invisible, and not even in a sexy way”, but whatever.)

“Come on, man, I’m getting cold,” Dean prompts. “No bad-touching, I promise.”

“This is a terrible idea,” Cas says, with a feeling – by his standards – but the bed dips anyway.

There is a little shifting and rustling while Cas gets comfortable. When it’s quiet again, Dean drops the blanket. He has no idea how much space there is between them, but he’s acutely aware that it could be less.

He lies back down, realising that having only one pillow and not taking it over with him to the cold side of the bed means that Cas has it now, and asking him to give it up would probably violate all the unwritten rules of platonic bed-sharing. It’s the kind of thing you never had to worry about with Sam, who always thought to bring his own over when they were kids. And yeah, no, can’t really compare that. He feels hysterical laughter bubble up for a moment, but chokes it down with an ease born of long habit. 

Cas falls asleep pretty much as soon as he’s horizontal. In the end, it’s actually Dean who listens to the soft rise and fall of his breathing in the darkness. It’s at the same time comforting and… very much not. 

 


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed everyone in this story is dealing with PTSD in some way. It's a theme. 
> 
> Kevin's issues are very much inspired by [Balder's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Balder12) amazing stories.

Dean wakes up with a crick in his neck and pale morning light slanting in through the high windows. Cas is still sleeping, curled up with his back to him. There’s plenty of room between them, Cas only occupying the utmost edge of both mattress and pillow. For a moment, Dean entertains fleeting thoughts of closing that distance, running a hand over the curve of Cas’s shoulder, along his ribs, to the perfect dip of his waist, and down to his hip… Yeah, no. World of no.

Dean gets up, quickly, but as quietly as he can. He figures Cas could do with a few more hours if he can get them, and it’ll be easier to pretend this whole freaky episode never happened if they get up separately, anyway. Trust the guy who’s been sneaking out of other people’s beds since before he could legally drive.

He’s up later than usual, so Sam’s already in the kitchen when he comes in, and halfway through the first pot of coffee. 

Dean puts some bacon on and grabs a mug. After a moment, he realises he’s waiting for Sam to leave, like he’s done the last few days, but for once, Sam doesn’t.

Dean scrambles some eggs, tries to make his neck muscles unclench. When he throws away the eggshells and hazards a glance over his shoulder, Sam is still there and watching him, tired-looking and a little hunched in on himself, but no longer in immediate danger of keeling over any moment.

“At least one of us slept well?” he offers when he catches Dean looking. It’s forced-casual, but Dean knows an outstretched hand when he sees one.

And what do you know, Dean actually did sleep well. Not just more than normal, but deeply too. Huh.

“Yeah,” he says noncommittally. “You doin’ okay?” He hasn’t dared ask since the Ezekiel mess blew up in his face, and he’s still half-expecting Sam to explode at him now.

He doesn’t. “Mostly.” He accepts the plate of eggs and bacon on buttered toast that Dean holds out with a slight eyeroll, but does eat a little while Dean wolfs down his own portion.

It’s good enough for now.

*

There’s an old wooden church, about a mile uphill from the bunker. It’s heavily overgrown with ivy and most of the roof has caved in a long time ago. According to several old maps, it’s part of the Men of Letters’ fantastically huge property.

Dean figures it’s as good a day as any to do the ghost sweep they’ve been planning. Since Sam’s not up to it yet, he drags Kevin with him, despite his protests. Kid needs some sunshine.

(Also makes one less person who could see Cas stumble out of his room. Because, never happened, remember?)

The forest is an unholy mess of underbrush and closely crowded old trunks. Even the narrow path leading up to the church is blocked by fallen trees in several places.

Kevin only stops making up reasons he should be staying behind once they’re out of sight of the road. Dean guesses he’s finally accepted that there’s no getting out of this one.

Judging by the EMF readings they get as they approach the place, there definitely is a ghost, but either it’s too classy, or it just can’t be bothered to come out and throw stuff at them in broad daylight. Calibrating the various EMF meters Dean found lying around the bunker against each other keeps them busy for a while.

Some twenty graves are still visible in the grassy back yard, cast-iron crosses and weathered grey headstones leaning every which way. Dean spends the afternoon digging up three of them, salts and burns the bones, until Kevin tells him that the meter readings have spiked and dropped.

They don’t talk much, otherwise, and Kevin keeps staring into the surrounding forest like he expects something horrible to come roaring out at him from the dappled green shadows. But then, they only brought one shovel, so it’s not like he has much else to do.

The mindless digging is cathartic, but on their way back to the bunker, Dean feels the restlessness creep back up on him, tacky and itching like the cooling sweat on his back. He’s antsy and he can’t even really say why.

It’s getting dark by the time they make it back. Judging by the plate in the sink and the lettuce stems and carrot peel in the trash, Sam’s already eaten. 

Cas is nowhere to be seen, but the bunker is vast enough that Dean makes an effort not to worry. 

He nukes two plates of yesterday’s casserole in the ancient microwave instead, and watches as Kevin meticulously scrapes off the cheese and picks out every last bit of salami, then eats the rest, eyes fixed on whatever game he’s playing on his phone. 

Dean briefly considers whether to pick out his own mushy vegetable bits and some of the potato and offer to swap plates the way he sometimes does with Sam, but decides that would be weird. He – even more briefly – wonders whether to offer the kid a beer, but the odds are sadly in favour of disapproving dark eyes snapping up at him and just… staring, so he doesn’t.

The fridge is calling to him, though, cold beer promising sweet relief all the way through doing the dishes, so he finally reminds himself that he’s gritty with grave dirt and needs a shower, to get away from it. 

The hot water beating down on his already aching head and echoing off the walls doesn’t really help, only makes him feel more claustrophobic.

*

It’s got to be past midnight, but Dean is still awake when the door creaks. And aware enough to immediately go for the light switch on his bedside lamp. There’s no way he’s gonna risk another of those too-personal, in-the-dark conversations. 

Like he guessed, it’s Cas standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of old grey sweatpants and a faded black Bad Company t-shirt. He looks caught and desperately uncomfortable, blinking against the light like a disgruntled owl. For the undisputed world champion of grandiose entrances – with billowing coat and literal flying sparks and all – he cuts a painfully pathetic picture. He always pretends to be a stone-cold pragmatist, but Dean secretly suspects that if Cas enjoys anything, it’s showing up unannounced in the most dramatic moment possible. His timing is too perfect for anything else. Dude’s got to miss that. 

Though probably not as much as flying. Or being invulnerable. Or immortal. Or practically omniscient. Or, well, not having to sleep. He definitely knows that one, and compared to the others it seems like such a small thing. 

He realises they’ve been staring at each other, and opens his mouth the same moment Cas practically blurts out, “Can I stay here overnight? Please.”

Dean swallows. There’s still a hundred and one arguments why this is one hell of a bad idea. But since last night worked out pretty well, all things considered, he can’t really find it in him to refuse. “One condition.” 

Cas’s almost hopeful face falls into careful neutrality. “Of course, Dean,” he says mechanically, “tomorrow, we are going to pretend it has never happened.” There’s no annoyance in his tone, no well-deserved deadpan mockery. Just calm acceptance. 

Guilt hits Dean in the stomach like a ten-ton anvil. He feels like every high-school girlfriend who ever told him, _yeah, you can drive me home, but drop me off down the road from my parents’ house_ , and knowing what it’s like to be on the receiving end, it’s not a comfortable feeling. “Hey, no! I mean, just…” He forces a wobbly smile. “Bring you own pillow, man – my neck can’t take another night like the last.” 

Cas’s eyes search his for a long moment, then the corners of his mouth twitch up a tiny bit. “I will be back in a moment,” he vows, gravelly in a way that sends hot shivers down Dean’s spine. What the _fuck_ is he getting himself into? 

*

Another night of listening to Cas’s quiet, regular breathing for a creepily long time before he manages to fall asleep himself despite his raging hard-on, it turns out. Oh, well.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too busy to write much atm, just editing here and there. Sorry for that. Also still looking for a beta, if anyone feels like taking a hatchet to this?

The next morning is one for pancakes. Kevin takes his stack to the library, but Sam keeps Dean company in the kitchen again, still picking at his first helping after Dean has polished off seconds, put a plate aside for Cas, and moved on to the clean-up. 

“You okay?” Dean asks automatically, then belatedly braces himself for the tirade – which still doesn’t come. 

“Hmm,” Sam says, noncommittal. “I’m worried about Cas, though. Unless you make his bed every day, he hasn’t been sleeping in it since you got the room ready for him.” 

The warm heaviness of the pancakes in Dean’s stomach turns into a lump of ice at that, and he curses himself for being an idiot. 

He shouldn’t be so surprised. Even preoccupied with other shit, Sam would be sharp enough to notice an untouched bed. He has always liked making fun of Dean’s military-precision hospital corners, but it’s either those, or not making the bed at all, and that’s for cheap motels. 

Dean hesitates, but he guesses if he doesn’t tell Sam, Cas will spill it, and at a much worse time too, because he won’t see any reason not to, after Dean revoked the ‘never happened’ rule. Not that there is a reason. None whatsoever. All innocent. “It’s fine. Cas has been sleeping. I, er, kinda let him crash in my room the last couple nights.” 

Sam’s eyebrows go up, and he searches Dean’s face. 

Dean holds up under the scrutiny, though he feels his ears heat. “Cut it out, man, nothing happened!” 

Sam’s amused expression turns exasperated. “Dean…” 

There is no way they’re discussing this. He doesn’t care whether Sam is about to launch the ‘you’re my brother, no matter what’ speech, or the ‘it’s okay to be gay’ PSA he’s probably had saved up since before he went off to college; Dean’s not going to sit through either of those, ever. “Shut it, Sammy! I said nothing happened, and nothing’s gonna happen.”

Sam’s unimpressed face lets him know clearer than words that he is an idiot and possibly also delusional. But he thankfully leaves it be with nothing more than a quiet, affectionate snort. He’s almost smiling, actually. 

Dean clatters busily with the dishes and pretends he didn’t hear a thing. 

* 

Cas is still asleep, when Dean sneaks into his room to drop off the plate of syrup-slathered pancakes and grab his jacket, ankle knife, and Beretta – the minimum armament needed for a trip into town. 

It’s not a long drive, but the open fields rushing past and the purr of the engine soothe something in him. With summer all but over, the corn has been shredded and the long grass by the roadside has withered to wispy, yellow stalks. Shame Kansas isn’t really a place for spectacular fall colours. They’d have to go to New England for that. Or maybe the other way, towards the Rockies. A trip to Montana or something. 

Not that that seems likely to happen in the near future. He forces the thought down. 

For now, it just feels good to be driving at all. Much as he likes the bunker, they’ve been cooped up inside the damn place too long. He rolls down the window and floors the accelerator. He can almost feel the weight of his worries falling off him, watch them shrink in the rear-view mirror. 

It would be so easy to just keep driving. 

At the same time, there’s the subtle sense of wrongness that always creeps up his neck when the seat beside him is empty. Like one of those dreams where you realise you’re in a house full of vampires, but forgot your machete in the trunk. 

He pushes the feeling down and drowns it out with Metallica turned all the way up. 

One thing at a time, he tells himself. 

* 

When he gets back, Dean does laundry. 

He’d planned to go for a grocery run, originally, but somehow found himself in front of the second-hand store, and decided, hey, why not drop the cash there instead? It makes sense: they go through their clothes like paper tissues at the best of times, and now they have to split the stack three ways. (Kevin politely declined a share by staring at Sam pointedly for five minutes when he offered. And boy, way to piss Dean off. If the kid wants to stare at him like he’s an idiot, fine, but Sammy? Has enough on his plate to forget that other people are munchkins compared to him.) Plus, they actually have the space to keep spares now. 

Except, it occurs to him when he shoves everything into the oversized, brass-optic washing machine that probably has a good twenty years on him that what he bought are mostly black jeans, and shirts in various tones of blue, not his and Sam’s preferred red, brown, khaki, and denim. Not to mention that it’s all a bit on the small side. 

In short, stuff that will all look damn good on Cas. Well done, subconscious. 

He throws some pizza dough together in the mercifully empty kitchen, and heads down to the gym to punch a bag while it rises. Sublimation is good. Healthy. Well, healthier than the alternative, anyway. 

* 

A few hours later, clothes washed, dried, and – well, not pressed, because who does that shit – he finds himself out of excuses and on a search for Cas. 

You only really notice how gigantic the bunker is when you lose something in there. Especially if that something is person-sized and still successfully pulling a needle-in-a-haystack stunt. 

By now, he is fairly positive that they’ve found all the hidden doors, walled-off corridors, and accessible-only-by-rusty-paternoster sub-levels – though one of the blueprints shows a full-size indoor swimming pool off the Eastern wing, behind the gym, which would be pretty cool, except that they haven’t been able to find it yet, so there’s no way to be a hundred percent sure. 

He finally finds Cas in the main residential corridor, outside the bathroom, sitting slumped against the wall, knees drawn up, and staring off into space. He must have been sitting there a while, because his shower-wet hair is already drying at the top, and the darker stains where water has been running down his neck and soaking into his t-shirt are already fading again. Dean feels chilled just looking at him. 

“Hey,” he says softly, and while Cas, even as a human, doesn’t really have much of a visible startle reflex, Dean can see that it does make his slack frame pull tight in response, which is as good as. He stares up at Dean wide-eyed for a long second, then slumps back in on himself with a quiet huff, but without breaking eye-contact. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

“Hey, Cas.” Great talk. “I, uh, I brought you some clothes.” He holds out the tidy stack of blue and black. 

Cas eyes it warily. 

“Thought you might want some of your own.” 

Cas still makes no move to take them. “I enjoy wearing your clothes, Dean,” he says, matter-of-fact, like that’s not at all a freaky-ass thing to say. 

“Well, tough shit,” Dean says, but it doesn’t come out nearly as encouraging as he intended. Even Cas seems to catch the apologetic note and squints up at him in confusion. He does catch the clothes too, when Dean drops them, though, so that’s progress. 

On impulse, Dean holds out a hand, and Cas lets himself be hauled up, rather than staying rooted to the floor as Dean would have half-expected. But he guesses the immovable-object routine is another thing that is much harder to pull off if you’re human. 

Cas’s hand is icy, and Dean barely resists the temptation to wrap it in both of his until it feels like something at least marginally alive again. 

“So, showers… Better or worse than sleeping?” It’s a weak attempt at humour, but if he’s honest, Dean’s been there too. Especially after Purgatory, but before that too, sometimes. 

He remembers being ten or so, spacing out in Pastor Jim’s sunny kitchen, staring at a red-and-white chequered dishtowel that had been hung over the oven door handle to dry, stomach full and homework spread across the table behind him, like he fell asleep and woke up in some other kid’s life. And he can’t even count how many times he’d caught himself sitting in Lisa’s driveway, in his car that wasn’t Baby, back from his job that wasn’t hunting, seeing her kitchen light stream out over the dark front lawn in invitation, and feeling fundamentally out of place, like he’d switched places with some random stranger, the kind of person who owned only one ID card, with his real name on it, and carried only one gun – a registered one, with the serial number still on, and with a legally issued open-carry-permit. 

Compared to what Cas is going through, the adjustments Dean failed to cope with at the time seem ridiculous, but it’s the closest approximation his brain can come up with for the concept of “suddenly being human”. 

Cas shrugs. “Sam says it would get better eventually,” he offers tiredly. “And to ‘give it time’.” 

“Yeah, sounds like a plan,” Dean agrees weakly. It’s the kind of thing he’d normally be happy for his brother to handle, but in this case, he kind of wishes Cas had come to him about it. But then, also kind of not. Either way, it’s a moot point. He drops Cas’s hand and clasps his shoulder instead. “Come on, dude, let’s get you under some blankets, you’re freezing.” 

Cas still looks wary, and like it’s impossible to decide whether the offensiveness of showers beats that of sleeping, but he does perk up a little bit at that. “Can I…?” 

Bed. Dean’s bed. Fuck. He suspects his smile looks pretty off, but it's the best he can do with his stomach doing useless somersaults. “Yeah. Of course. You know the rules, man! Bring your own pillow and keep your paws to yourself.”


End file.
